IT was a golden sunset, which was
fondly gazed upon by an old man on whose broad brow
the history of seventy winters had been written.
He sat in the wide porch of a large old-fashioned
house: his look was calm and clear, though years
had quelled the fire of his eagle glance; his silver
hair was borne mildly back, by the south wind of August,
and a smile of sweetness played over his features,
breathing the music of contentment. His heart
was still fresh, and his mind open to receive an impress
of the loveliness of earth. The dew of love for
his fellow-creatures fell upon his aged soul, and pure
adoration went up to the Giver of every good from its
altar. He lifted his gaze to the cerulean blue
above him, and dwelt upon his future, with a glow
of hope upon his heart ­then he turned to
the past, and his beaming expression gradually mellowed
into pensiveness: in thought, he travelled through
the long vista of years which he had left behind him,
and his mental exclamation was,

“There has not been a year of
my life since manhood, that I might not have lived
to a better purpose. I might have been more useful
and devoted to my race. I might more fully have
sacrificed the idol self, which so often I have knelt
to, in worship more heartfelt than I offered the Divinity.
Yet have I laboured to become pure in thy sight, oh,
my God! build thy kingdom in my breast!”

A tear trembled in the aged suppliant’s
eye, and the calm of holy humility stole over him;
the gentle look was again upon his countenance, when
a young man of about twenty years, swung open the
gate leading to the house, and, approaching, saluted
the old man with a cordial grasp of the hand; flinging
his cap carelessly down, he took a seat in a rustic
chair, and exclaimed with a smile of mingled affection
and reverence, which broke over his thoughtful features,
making him extremely handsome,

“Well, grandfather, I believe
you complete seventy years to-day!”

“Yes, my son, and I have been
looking back upon them. I do not usually dwell
upon the past with repining, yet I see much that might
have been better. My years have not always been
improved.”

The young man listened respectfully;
presently he asked, with sudden interest, “Pray
tell me, if there ever was a whole year of your life,
so perfectly happy that you would wish to live it all
over again?”

“I have been perfectly happy
at brief intervals,” was the reply, “yet
there is not a year of my long life, that I would choose
to have return. I have been surrounded by many
warm friends now gone to their homes in the spirit-world, ­I
have loved, and have been loved, and the recollection
yet thrills me; still I thank God that I am not to
live over those years upon earth. I have struggled
much for truth and goodness, and there has not been
one struggle which I would renew, though each has
been followed by a deep satisfaction.”

“To me, your life appears to
have been dreary, grandfather,” replied his
companion. “I ask for happiness!”
After a pause, he added with impetuosity, “If
I am not to meet with the ardent happiness I dream
of, and desire, I do not care to live. What is
the life which thousands lead, worth? Nothing!
I cannot sail monotonously down the stream ­the
more I think, and thought devours me, the more
discontented do I become with everything I see.
Why is an overpowering desire for happiness planted
within the human breast, if it is so very rarely to
be gratified? My childhood was sometimes gay,
but as often, it was clouded by disappointments which
are great to children. I have never seen even
the moment, since I have been old enough to reflect,
when I could say that I was as happy as I was capable
of being. I have even felt the consciousness that
my soul’s depths were not filled to the brim
with joy. I could always ask for more. In
my happiest hours, the eager question rushes upon me,
involuntarily, ‘Am I entirely content?’
And the response that rises up, is ever ‘No.’
I am young, and this soft air steals over a brow of
health ­I can appreciate the beautiful and
exquisite. I can drink in the deep poetry of
noble minds ­I can idly revel in voluptuous
music, and dream away my soul, but with that bewitching
dream, there is still a yearning for its realization.
I cannot abate the restlessness that presses upon
me ­I look around, and young faces are bright
and smiling with cheerful gayety. I endeavour
to catch the buoyant spirit, but I succeed rarely, ­if
I do, it floats on the surface, leaving the under-current
unbroken in its flow. Yet after I have endeavoured
to lighten the oppressive cares of some unfortunate
creature, a sort of peace has for a time descended
upon me, which has been infinitely soothing.
It soon departs, and my usual bitterness again sways
me. I sought for friendship, and for awhile I
was relieved, but I cannot forbear glancing down into
the motives of my fellow men, and that involuntarily-searching
spirit has proved unfortunate to me. I met with
selfishness in the form of attachment, and then I
turned to look upon the hollow heart of society, and
it was there.”

“Alfred, you make me sad,”
said the old man, in a solemn and deeply pained voice.
“This is the first time I knew that your heart
was such a temple of bitterness.”

“If I have saddened you, I wish
I had not spoken: but the thoughts rushed over
me, your kind heart is always open, and I gave them
expression. You have lived long, and there is
more sympathy in your experience, than in the laughing
jest of those near my own age. Pardon me, grandfather,
I will not pain you again!” Alfred turned his
eyes upon his aged friend; he caught the look of kindness
upon that honoured face, and it fell warmly, upon
his soul.

“It is right to think deeply,”
said the revered adviser, “but one must think
rightly, also. You must not look out upon the
world, from the darkened corners of your soul, or
the hue is transferred to all things which your glance
falls upon. Take the torch of truth and heavenly
charity to chase away the dimness within you, then
powerful changes will be wrought in your vision.
You will begin to regard your fellow man with new
feelings of interest. I am a plain and blunt
old man, Alfred, but you know that my only desire is
for your good; so bear with my remarks if they be
unpalatable.”

“Certainly, sir, I value frankness before flattery.”

“You may say that you have never
been perfectly happy,” continued the
old gentleman; “that is neither strange nor uncommon,
for I have met with few thoughtful persons of your
years, who, upon close reflection, could say that
their souls could desire no more than had been granted
to them. You must seek for resignation, not entire
bliss upon earth, although it is possible that you
may enjoy it for a season.”

“Why is joy so transitory and
unquiet so lasting?” demanded the young man
impatiently.

“The fault is not in the transitoriness
of the joy, but in the very soul itself, ­it
is in a state of disorder; its nature must be changed
before it can receive for ever only the image of gladness.
In a chaos of the elements, can a smiling sky be always
seen? Lay asleep all unruly elements in the spirit,
and a pure heaven of brightness will then greet the
uplifted glance.”

“But how can all this be done,
grandfather? hath unruly elements do you speak of?
What can I do; for instance? I certainly am willing
and glad to see my kind happy ­if my soul
be in disorder, I do not know in what it consists,
or how to bring it to order. I am weary of its
unsatisfied desires; it is, continually in search of
something which it has never caught sight of, ­and
the fear, that that unknown, yet powerfully desired
something may never come to quench my thirst, falls
with the coldness of death upon my bosom.”

“That something may be found
by every human being, if sought for in the right way.
Those yearnings are not given us, that they may fall
back and wither the fountain from which they spring.
But the question is, do we seek for happiness in the
right way? Do we not rather ask for an impossibility,
when we ask for permanent bliss, before we have laid
a foundation in our souls for it? You wish to
take this life too easy by far, my son; rouse up all
your strength, look around you with the keenness of
a resolved spirit, and seek to regenerate your whole
being, ­let that be your object, and let
the desire for happiness be subservient to it.
You will clasp joy to your breast, as an everlasting
gift, at the end of the race. What are your aims
and objects? You hardly know; you are in pursuit
of that which flees, before you as a shadow, and your
restless spirit sinks and murmurs, ­you
have no grand object in view, to buoy you up steadily
and trustfully through every ill which life has power
to bestow. Those very ills are seized upon, and
become instruments of glory to the devoted and heaven-strengthened
spirit, ­they prepare for a deeper draught
of all things dear and desired, and though the soul
droop beneath the weight of human suffering, yet the
rod that smites is kissed with a prayer. Turn
away from your individual self, as far as you can,
and regard the broad world with a philanthropic eye ­”

“Impossible ­impossible!”
interrupted Alfred, hastily, “I defy any person
to turn from himself, and look upon the world with
a more interested gaze than he casts upon his own
heart. One may be philanthropic in his feelings
and devoted to alleviating the distresses of less
fortunate beings, but I hold it to be impossible that
our individual selves will not always be first in interest.
A sudden and powerful impulse may carry us away for
a time, but after that rushing influence leaves us,
we see yourselves again, and, find that we had only
lost our equilibrium briefly. I say only what
I sincerely think, and what thousands secretly know
to be the case, even while advocating views quite
opposite. There is no candour in the world!”

“Softly, my good friend,”
said the grandfather, mildly smiling. “I
also hold it to be impossible that we can lose either
our individuality or our interest in ourselves, but
I believe it possible that we may love others just
as well, if not better than ourselves. I do not
refer to one or two particular persons whom we may
admire, but I speak of the mass of our fellow-creatures.”

“I cannot even conceive of such
a love!” returned the young man, shaking his
head. “I cannot see how I could love a person
who possesses no attractive qualities whatever; ­I
always feel indifference, if not dislike. I think
I could sacrifice my life to one I loved, if thrown
into sudden and imminent danger; still, I think I
might give pain to that same person many times, by
gratifying myself. For instance, grandfather, ­suppose
you were to be led to the stake, to be burned to-morrow, ­I
would take your place to save you; yet I do not now
do all I possible can, to add to your happiness.
I gratify whims of my own; I idle away hours in the
woods, or by some stream, when I fully know that it
would be more pleasing to you, to see me bending patiently
over my Greek and Latin.”

“Very true!” sighed the
old man. “You prove your own position, which
is that your ruling love is self-love.”

Alfred lifted up his eyebrows, as
if he had heard an unwelcome fact. We are often
willing to confess things, which we do not like to
have old us. He fell into deep thought.
Finally he said, “It is universally allowed
that virtue is lovely; those who practise it, appear
calm and resigned, and often happy ­but,
to tell the truth, such enjoyment seems rather tame
and flat. I wish to be in freedom, to let my
burning impulses rush on as they will, without a yoke.
I love, and I hate, as my heart bids me, and I scorn
control of any kind.”

“Yet you submit to a yoke, my
son; one which is not of your own imposing either.”

“What kind of a yoke?”

“The yoke of society, ­you
bow to public opinion in a measure. You avoid
a glaring act, often, more because it will not be approved,
than because you have a real disinclination for it.
Is not that the case sometimes?”

Alfred did not exceedingly relish
this probing, but he was too candid to cover up his
motives from himself. He answered a decided “yes!”
but it was spoken, because he could not elbow himself
out of the self-evident conviction forced upon him.

“Do you think it degrading for
a man to conquer and govern the strongest, as well
as the weakest impulses of his soul?” pursued
his grandfather.

“Certainly not degrading, ­it
is in the highest degree worthy of praise. It
is truly noble! I acknowledge it.”

“And yet you deem such enjoyment
as would result from this government, tame and flat.”

“I beg pardon; when I spoke
of virtue, I referred to that smooth kind which is
current, and seems more passive than active, ­that
soft amiability which appears to deaden enthusiasm,
and to shut up the soul in a set of opinions, instead
of expanding it widely to everything noble and generous,
wherever it may be found.”

“It was not genuine virtue,
you referred to, then, ­it was only its
resemblance.”

“It was what passes for virtue.
But to come at the main point, grandfather; ­where
is happiness to be found, if we are to be warring
with ourselves during a lifetime, checking every natural
spring in the soul?”

“Stop there, Alfred! We
only quench the streams, which prevent the spirit’s
purest wells of noble and happy feelings from gushing
forth in freedom. We must wage a warfare, it
is true; why conceal it? But it does not last
for ever, and intervals of gladness come to refresh
us, which the worn and blunted spirit of the man of
pleasure in vain pants for. An exquisite joy,
innocent as that of childhood, pervades the bosom
of truth’s soldier in his hours of peace and
rest, and he lifts an eye of rapture to heaven ­to
God.”

Alfred dwelt earnestly upon the noble
countenance of the speaker, and his bosom filled with
unwonted emotion, as the heavenly sweetness of the
old man’s smile penetrated into his inward soul.
Goodness stood before him in its wonderful power, and
he bowed down his soul in worship. How insignificant
then seemed his individual yearnings after present
enjoyment, instead of that celestial love which can
fill a human soul with so strong a power from on high.
He reflected upon that venerable being’s life ­so
strong and upright; he dwelt upon his large and noble
heart, which could clasp the world in its embrace.
He remembered months of acute suffering, both physical
and mental, which had been endured with the stillness
of a martyr’s inward strength; and then, too,
he recalled times when that aged heart was more truly
and deeply joyful than his own young spirit had even
been. Both relapsed into the eloquent silence
of absorbing thought. It was evident from the
softened and meditative cast of Alfred’s features,
that his bitterness had given way to the true tenderness
of feeling it so often quelled; he revolved in his
mind all that had been advanced by his grandfather,
and he dwelt upon every point with candour and serious
reflection. A strong impression was made upon
him, but he was entirely silent in regard to it, ­he
waited to try his strength, before he spoke of the
better resolutions that were formed, not without effort,
in his mind. He felt a conviction that a change
from selfishness to angelic charity might be accomplished,
if he were but willing to co-operate with his Maker, ­the
conception of universal love slowly dawned upon his
soul, now turned heavenward for light, ­his
duties as a responsible being came before him, and
a sigh of reproach was given to the past. Then
golden visions of delight thronged up to his gaze,
and it was with a severe pang he thought of losing
his, hold upon the dear domains of idle fancy, ­he
had so revelled for hours and hours, in intoxicating
dreams, which shut out the world and stern duty.
He felt his weakness, but he resolutely turned from
dwelling upon it. The evening air was refreshing
after the warm sunset, but old Mr. Monmouth would
not trust himself to bear it. Alfred went into
the house with him, and made a brief call, then left,
and wended his way a short distance to his own home,
which was a very elegant mansion, surrounded by every
mark of luxury and taste. He immediately sought
his chamber, and took up a neglected Bible which his
mother had given him when a child, ­he turned
over its leaves, and his eyes fell upon the one hundred
and nineteenth psalm, “Thy word is a lamp unto
my feet, and a light upon my path. I have sworn,
and I will perform it, that I will keep thy righteous
judgments.” He read on, and the exceeding
beauty and touching power of the Holy Word had never
so deeply affected him, ­he wept, and all
that was harsh in his nature melted, ­he
prayed, and the angels of God approached, filling
his uplifted soul with heavenly strength. Sweet
was the thrill of thanksgiving, that arose from that
hitherto restless spirit ­quiet and blest
the peace that hushed him to deep, invigorating slumber.
Persons of an enthusiastic temperament are apt to
fall into extremes; such was the case with Alfred Monmouth.
He so feared that he would fall back into his former
states of feeling, that he guarded himself like an
anchorite. For three months he abstained from
going into company, and even reasonable enjoyment he
deprived himself of. He threw aside all books
but scientific and religious ones; even poetry he
shut his ears against, lest it might beguile him again
to his dreamy, but selfish musings. No doubt this
severe discipline was very useful to him at the time,
in strengthening him against the besetting faults
of his character; but it could not last long, without
originating other errors. During this time he
had been, perhaps, as happy as ever in his life; his
mind had been fixed upon an object, and a wealth of
new thoughts had crowded upon him ­he rejoiced
with a kind of proud humility in his capability for
self-government. He thought he was rapidly verging
towards perfection. But “a change came o’er
the spirit of his dream” at last, and an unwonted
melancholy grew upon him, until it settled like a
pall over his heart. An apathy in regard to what
had so lately interested him, stole over him, and
indeed a cold glance fell upon almost every pursuit
he had once prized. Plunged in deep gloom, he
one evening sought his grandfather’s dwelling,
hoping, by a conversation with the cheerful old man,
to regain a more healthy state of mind; to his great
satisfaction, Alfred found him alone reading.

“Well, my boy, I am glad you
have come in!” was the salutation, with a most
cordial smile, for Mr. Monmouth had silently remarked
the late alteration in his somewhat reckless grandson.
He also detected the present gloom upon his fine countenance,
and the earnest hope of dispelling it, added an affectionate
heartiness to his manner. Alfred made several
common-place remarks, then, with his usual impatience,
he flung aside all preamble, and said,

“I am gloomy, grandfather, even
more so than I have ever been, and I cannot explain
it. The last serious conversation I had with you,
produced a strong effect upon me, and for a long time
after I was unusually cheerful and vigorous in mind.
I seemed to have imbibed something of your spirit ­I
delighted in the hope of regenerating myself, through
the aid of Heaven; it seemed as if angels hushed my
restless spirit to repose, and I tried in humility
to draw near my God. Yet I feared for myself,
and I withdrew from temptation, from all society which
was uncongenial to my state of mind. I was content
for a long time, but now the sadness of apathy overwhelms
me.”

“Endeavour, without murmuring,
to bear this state of mind, and it will soon pass
off,” remarked Mr. Monmouth. “We must
not always fly from temptation in every form, my boy,
but we must arm ourselves against its attacks, otherwise
our usefulness will be greatly lessened. If those
who are endeavouring to make themselves better, do
so by shunning society, they are rather examples of
selfishness than benevolent goodness, ­the
selfishness is unconscious, and such a course may
be followed from a sense of duty. But the glance
which discovered this to be duty was not wide enough;
it took in only the claims of self, yet I would not
convey the idea, that we have any one’s evils
to take care of but our own. We need society,
and, however humble we may be, society needs us.
We need to be refreshed by the strength of good beings,
and we must also contribute our slight share to those
whom Providence wills that we may benefit. The
life of heaven may thus circulate freely, and increase
in power among many hearts. Go forward, Alfred,
unmindful of your feelings, and pray only to trust
in Providence, and to gain a deep desire for usefulness.”

“Ah! yes,” returned the
young man, earnestly. Light broke in upon his
darkness. “I am glad that I have spoken
with you, grandfather, for your words give me strength
to persevere. I never knew that I was weak until
lately.”

“Such knowledge is precious,
my dear son. We are indeed strongest when the
hand of humility removes the veil that hides us from
ourselves.”

“Probably such is, the case,
but I cannot realize it. It is with effort that
I drag through the day; I am continually looking towards
the future, and beholding a thousand perplexing situations
where my besetting sins will be called into action.
I see myself incapable of always following out the
noble principles I have lately adopted.”

“As thy day is, so shall thy
strength be!” said Mr. Monmouth. “Be
careful only to guard yourself against each little
stumbling-block as it presents itself, and your mountains
will be changed to mole-hills. Never fear for
the future, do as well as you can in the present.”

“But it is so singular that
I should feel thus, when I have been trying as hard
as a mortal could to change my erroneous views, and
to regard all the dispensations of Providence with
a resigned heart. I have cast the selfish thought
of my own earthly happiness from my mind as much as
possible.”

“And yet there is a repining
in your gloominess. You are not satisfied to
bear it.”

“Well, perhaps not. I am
wrong, ­I think that I could submit with
true fortitude to an outward trial, but there seems
so little reason in my low spirits. Have you
ever felt so, grandfather?”

“Often; and at such times, I
devote myself more earnestly than ever to anything
which will take my thoughts from myself.”

“I will do so!” replied
Alfred, firmly. “If my purposes are right
in the sight of Heaven, I will be supported.”

“True, my son.”

Alfred left the home of his grandsire,
more at rest with himself and all the world.
Fresh peaceful hopes again sprang up within him, and
he began to see his way clear. He reasoned himself
into resignation, and, as day after day went on, he
grew grateful for the privilege and opportunity offered
to school his rebellious spirit to order.

Four years passed; Alfred was engaged
in the busy world, and he shrunk not from it, but
rather sought to do his duty in it. One summer
evening, he was called to enter the large, old-fashioned
house of his grandfather. His brow was thoughtful,
but calm and resigned ­he sought a quiet
room; it was the chamber of death, ­yet
was its stillness beautiful and peaceful; he knelt
by a dying couch, and clasped the hand of his aged
grandsire ­then he wept, but the unbidden
tears were those of gratitude. The serenity of
heaven was upon the countenance of the noble old man.

“My hour has come, Alfred,”
he said, placing one hand upon the beloved head bowed
before him, “and I go hence with thankfulness.
Ah! even now, there is a heavenly content in my bosom.
The angels are bending over me, and wait to take my
spirit to its home: there is no mist before my
sight, all is clear. The Father of love lifts
up my soul in this hour ­our parting will
be short, my son ­” the old man’s
voice trembled, an infinite tenderness dwelt in his
eyes, and Alfred felt that there was a reality in
the peace of the dying one. All the good that
he had done him rushed before him, and he exclaimed
with humility,

“How can I ever repay you, dear
grandfather! for all your noble lessons to me?”

“I am repaid,” was (sic)
the the low reply; “they have brought forth
fruit, and I have lived to see it. I trust that
you will leave the world with all the peace that I
do, and with deeper goodness in your spirit.
My blessing be upon you, my son!”

“Amen!” came low from Alfred’s fervent
lips.

The eyes of the aged one closed in
death, and his young disciple went forth again into
the world, made better by the scene he had witnessed.

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